


More Awesome Werewolf Powers

by riventhorn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2012-08-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 05:50:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riventhorn/pseuds/riventhorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*Spoilers for the Teen Wolf finale* Gerard did more than just hit Stiles a few times that night--and Stiles is finding the aftermath hard to cope with</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Awesome Werewolf Powers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wangler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wangler/gifts).



> For lolafeist, my h/c soulmate.

Despite the many times that people had threatened to punch Stiles in the face, he had never actually _been_ punched in the face. 

It hurt. 

It hurt like a _bitch_ and left him feeling dizzy, face throbbing while he tried to do something besides flail around on the floor.

Add to that the fact that he was being beat up by someone old enough to be his grandfather, and this was definitely going right on the List of Experiences that Need Never Be Repeated. Right up there with being stuck in a swimming pool while the kanima prowled around. Or being paralyzed and watching while his dad—

Gerard’s fist slammed into his face again, snapping him back to the present. Stiles was almost glad because it kept him from reliving that moment again, when he’d been so powerless. Couldn’t do anything to stop his own dad from being hurt. 

Although there were a lot of similarities with this moment. Powerless. Terrified. Possibly going to die by the end of the evening.

The next punch split his lip open. He could taste the blood. 

Gerard let go of his jersey. Stiles slumped back, woozy. The frantic panting of the betas was loud in the room. 

“You’re a good friend to Scott, aren’t you, Stiles?” Gerard said, not even breathing hard, the bastard. “Always on hand. Always being helpful.” 

“Yep, Robin—Watson—Chewie—that’s me,” Stiles managed.

Gerard laughed indulgently and dragged Stiles over to the staircase. “Being modest, Mr. Stilinski?” Before Stiles could react, he felt the cold metal of a handcuff biting into his wrist. Gerard looped the other end around the rail and then shackled Stiles’s other hand. 

Stiles’s heart pounded faster. “Uh, hello? No super speed. No fangs. No werewolf powers here.” 

“You know, I’d ask you where to find Derek,” Gerard said, pulling out a roll of duct tape. “But I have a feeling you’d be just as recalcitrant as the betas.”

Stiles couldn’t tear his eyes off the duct tape. “I—I can be persuaded. In many ways. Ways that are not painful. Ways that don’t involve kidnapping and dark basements.”

“And do you think I’d believe you?” Gerard tore off a strip of tape. “You tell lies all the time—to your teachers, to your _father_. I’d imagine all that practice has paid off.”

Stiles shook his head and tried to kick out his legs, but Gerard easily evaded him and stuck the tape over his mouth. 

“So we don’t wake Allison up,” he said, and then wrenched Stiles’s jersey up around his shoulders. The cool air of the basement rushed over Stiles’s skin, and he shivered.

Gerard turned away and went to the humming generator, which was still sending sparks of agony up the wires into Erica and Boyd. He pulled on a pair of heavy gloves and then picked up something lying next to the generator before coming back to stand next to Stiles.

It was.

It was an electric welder. 

“I used this to subdue the betas,” Gerard explained. “You won’t require as much force, Mr. Stilinski, but I imagine you won’t want to be playing lacrosse for awhile afterwards.”

Stiles tried to get free. He wrenched at the handcuffs, jerking and twisting. Tried to press himself into the wall. 

Gerard touched the tip of the welder to his stomach. 

He screamed. He knew that much, even though all that emerged was a horrible, high pitched whine that was trapped in his throat by the duct tape digging into his face. 

Sweat and tears stung his eyes, and he whimpered as the pain subsided from white heat into a red burn. 

Gerard did it again.

And again.

And then he stepped back, shutting off the welder, and the pain swamped over Stiles. Bad enough that he thought he was going to vomit. He’d choke on it. Suffocate. 

But Gerard ripped off the duct tape, and Stiles sucked in a breath. “Please, please, please,” he mumbled, knowing he was begging and hating it. “Please stop.”

“Stay out of the way tonight, Mr. Stilinski,” Gerard said. “Or we’ll have to repeat this delightful little chat we’ve had.”

The men who had brought him here reappeared, and Stiles was freed, shoved to his feet. He could barely stand, trembling from the shock, and they pushed him up the stairs. Erica’s muffled sobs crept after him, but he couldn’t—couldn’t help. Panic squeezed his chest, and he fought it off. He had to get home. He had to get to his room and shut the door behind him. He couldn’t help Scott. Not this time. He was useless. Weak. Frightened. 

*

But he went, in the end. 

He did what he could, and he stood by Scott.

And tried to keep the screams and blind panic hidden deep inside, where no one else could see.

*

He felt like crap the next morning. The barest twitch made his whole body ache. He must be covered in bruises from that fall down the stairs. His face was swollen, and the burns on his stomach throbbed. 

He managed to lever himself onto one elbow and glanced towards the door.

Scott was sitting cross-legged on his bed, watching him.

“Holy shit!” Stiles started back, wincing at the sudden movement. “Dude, what are you—Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” 

Scott inched a little closer. “I couldn’t sleep. So I came to see how you were.”

“Well, thanks, but next time, buddy, use the door.” Stiles bit back a groan. Getting up was so not happening.

“I can smell you,” Scott said softly.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Sorry. No time for a shower what with Jackson sort-of-dying, then turning into a werewolf, and the rest of the shit that went down last night.”

“You smell hurt,” Scott continued, ignoring him.

Stiles swallowed. “It’s nothing. My face is just a little bruised. I’ll put an ice pack on it. Or a piece of raw meat. Slap a steak over it. Would that make you hungry?”

“ _Stiles_.”

Stiles shut up. Scott made an abortive movement towards him, and then pawed distractedly at the blanket.

“Oh, for the love of god—what are you, twelve?” Stiles muttered and lifted up the blanket. Scott clambered in beside him. 

When they had been younger, Scott had fallen asleep in his bed five days out of seven, spending the night because he couldn’t be bothered with going home, not when he’d be back first thing in the morning anyway. Stiles’s dad would put out a sleeping bag, but Scott always ended up climbing into Stiles’s bed where they looked at comic books under the covers with a flashlight. 

Stiles’s mom had always let them have Lucky Charms and Frosted Flakes for breakfast when Scott stayed over.

“What happened?” Scott asked. “What did he do to you?”

Stiles shook his head, blinking against the sting of tears. 

Scott put his hand on Stiles’s arm.

It felt a little like his arm was falling asleep, but when Scott pulled away, some of the pain went with him.

“More awesome werewolf powers?” Stiles asked weakly.

“Yeah.” Scott moved closer and nuzzled Stiles’s shoulder. “I can’t heal you completely, though.”

Stiles cleared his throat. “Better than nothing. Really, really fantastic actually.”

Scott put his arm around Stiles. Didn’t say anything, just held him.

Stiles breathed out shakily.

“You smell better,” Scott said after a while, nosing at Stiles’s throat. 

“Ugh—don’t start drooling on me,” Stiles said, but he didn’t pull away. 

“Wouldn’t,” Scott replied, sounding sleepy.

“That’s what all the werewolves say,” Stiles murmured. He could feel Scott’s heartbeat against his arm, steady and calm.

“Mmmmph.” Scott huffed and shifted, getting Stiles to put his arm around his waist.

“Is this a thing now? Cuddling? Like puppies?” Stiles asked. “Another trait of werewolf behavior manifesting itself?”

“Maybe.” Scott yawned and shut his eyes. “Feels…safe.”

“I can’t picture Derek cuddling,” Stiles reflected. “Or Jackson. God, this is going to be a nightmare, isn’t it? He’ll be impossible to deal with. He’ll just keep bragging endlessly about being stronger and faster than us mere mortals.”

“ _Stiles_.”

“Right. I get it. Cuddling. And sleeping.” 

He shut up, and listened to Scott’s breathing even out. His body felt better—not quite so sore. And that dark, cold fear inside him seemed to have melted a little, too.

Yep. Totally awesome werewolf powers.


End file.
